Marina Tsvetaeva
Girlfriend. 7. The snowflakes shimmered and glittered...

The snowflakes shimmered and glittered
on your gray furs and my red; we’d gone out
to see the famous Christmas market at Rostov—
how we hunted through the whole of it
for the most colorful, the prettiest ribbons;

how I gorged on savory pancakes—
I should have been sick—I ate at least six—
how the sight of all the red toy horses,
carved wooden guys on little wood wheels,
—how they melted my heart, in part
with childhood nostalgia,
and partly because they were echoes
and emblems of you,
my red-maned thoroughbred;

how the men in traditional poddyovka coats,
caftan-like, wide-sleeved, ankle-length, scarlet,
flapping like sails in the wind—
how they tried to sell us worthless rags,
swearing by Christ none were finer;
how the peasant women, stupid as cows,
watched, with wide, wondering eyes,
the two beautiful Moscow misses;

how, when it was getting late,
everyone packed up and scattered,
and we, without any real interest
but with nothing better to do,
entered a great wooden church where you stopped
in front of an ancient Mother of God,
stopped and stared;

how that image, with her grave gaze,
tender expression, slender face,
deep-set in her glass-windowed icon-case,
a birchwood frame densely decorated
with circle-faced seraphs, each one nested
in its own six wings—
an early eighteenth-century piece
from Tsarina Elizabeth’s days;

how you let go my hand, cried, “I want her!”—
how, with extraordinary care,
you set a yellow candle in a holder
and lit it before her

with your own dear totally secular hand
with the opal ring on your finger—
how that fair hand of yours was all my beautiful undoing!
—I promised I’d steal the icon for you
that very night—the words just slipped out—

how the monastery hostel’s refectory
was supercharged with solemnity
by the solemn rumble of the church’s bells,
and sunset’s dim religious light—
how we exploded into its holiness!
blissful, oblivious,
joyously noisy as a regiment on leave
or a young girl’s birthday party;

how I swore you’d only grow more beautiful with age,
and then I knocked over the salt—
(which always means you’re going to have a fight),
how we tried reading cards to see what else was in store.
I drew the King of Hearts three times in a row,
meaning a man in my life—
oh, you were furious!

—how you grabbed me, hugged me to your breast,
held my head tight, stroked my captive curls,
how I felt the metal flower of your enamel brooch
cold on my lips;

how I rubbed your hand on my cheek
to feel your long slender fingers
reassuring against my sleepy face,
how you teased me, saying I was your little boy,
and I knew this wasn’t a joke but something
you truly loved about me…

Translated by Seraphina Powell